


a lapse in self-control

by whalersandsailors



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Corvo fresh from Coldridge Prison, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Snotty noble, Snotty noble wanting to get drunk, Unexpected attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4281066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pendleton is of nobility, a controlled and willful man. Well, most of the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a lapse in self-control

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 31 Days of Fugue Feast, Day 2, Prompt: Prison, Beards, and Bad First Impressions

Treavor was not a patient man. True, he understand the way of things. Politics was in the very bloodline of his family and not something any of them took lightly. However, when he and other insurgents loyal to the Kaldwins hatched a plan to help the Lord Protector escape, Treavor knew that he was risking everything—his livelihood, his family, his connections, everything. So with a plan conducted through whispers in back alleyways with faceless servants and guardsmen, Treavor felt antsy.

It had been hours since their contact left the key with the Lord Protector. Now, they would wait. Treavor felt his foot start to tap with anxious jitters. He grit his teeth, making himself straighten his back and hold his hands to his coat—the perfect picture of good breeding. He was not about to let nerves take him over; he was a Pendleton with an image to maintain. Though he did feel the hairs on the back of his neck pimple with gooseflesh as the speakers groaned to life outside. Ah, so the Serkonan escaped. Their plan was coming together, Treavor thought to himself with a quirk of his lips.

The Admiral seemed too relaxed for the situation, leaning on the bar, scratching a fingernail along the wood. His lips were moving, but Treavor was hardly listening, instead morbidly fascinated with a roach crawling along the wall behind the bar. Treavor sniffed. The Hound Pits Pub was little more than a condemned, rotting shack, and he would have preferred a…well, _cleaner_ headquarters for their small group of revolutionists. But the pub was in a quarantined and emptied part of Dunwall. The likelihood of their being found was slim. Still, he had sent Wallace up to his future room to scrub the floors and walls. Treavor detested insects.

The Admiral was talking about that Overseer again. Martin? Was that his name? Treavor hardly cared. How long was the Lord Protector going to take? After all, this was the man in whom the Admiral and Treavor were placing their trust. Oh, he wished he had ordered Wallace to fetch him a drink—anything to sooth his stress.

After what felt hours longer than it truly was, the door burst open. Treavor saw dark, ragged clothes in the corner of his eye. Ah, here at last, he thought to himself. His fingers tightened on the lapels of his coat, but he kept his full attention on the Admiral, turning his nose up. After all, there was a hierarchy—implied, naturally—that he had to uphold.

The Admiral turned to their guest first, ceasing whatever drivel he had been going on about.

“The man of the hour is here,” he said with a nod to the Lord Protector. “Corvo, I’m Admiral Havelock, a true servant of the empire, like you.”

Treavor also turned to the guest, face poised in a neutral expression, hand held to his mouth thoughtfully—all careful, orchestrated movement.

And the stench hit him first. _Outsider’s eyes_. The man before looked like a wet, mangy dog. His hair was long, straggly, hid a dark-skinned yet gaunt face. Weeks-old stubble graced the sunken cheeks. But the _smell_. The smell. Rotten fish, human excrement, wafting waves of body odor—whatever it was, it smelled like a slaughterhouse that had baked in the sun. Shame, Treavor thought, for he remembered the Corvo being a fairly attractive man.

Suddenly, though, the man looked at Treavor, finally registering the noble’s presence. Treavor flinched slightly when he realized that silence had dragged on a while. He performed a quick, shallow bow.

“And I’m Lord Treavor Pendleton. I represent the nobility in our little group.” Rehearsed words, they slid off his tongue without effort. “But we all act as equals here at the Hound Pits Pub.”

Admiral Havelock resumed control of the conversation, but the Lord Protector’s eyes lingered a moment on Treavor. Much to Treavor’s surprise, he felt small under Corvo’s gaze. Corvo’s eyes were sharp and intelligent, despite the six brutal months in Coldridge Prison. It was captivating, if Treavor were to be honest with himself. Of course, this was hardly the first time that Treavor had seen the Lord Protector, but previously, it had been social and political functions where he had been shadowing his brothers and Corvo had been shadowing the late empress. Now, with Corvo in such close proximity, Treavor couldn’t help but examine him. He began to notice little details. A recent, red scar trailing along the brow. The long nose, aristocratic and straight. The broad line of his shoulders under the moldy remains of a coat. His hands, large and flexing every so often, as though missing the feel of a blade’s shaft. And those thighs—

Treavor’s eyes shot upward, his face feeling warm. No, now was not the time to be giving another man such attention. He turned to the Admiral, nodding to whatever Havelock was saying, trying to make himself a part of the conversation once more. When he looked back to Corvo, his face reddened again when he realized that Corvo was staring at him, confused amusement obvious in those dark, sparkling eyes.

Treavor did his best to smile once he heard Havelock pause for him to interject. It was admittedly hard to focus with those eyes—those disgustingly beautiful eyes—stripping him of every pretense. Maybe stripping him of more—

“But you must be exhausted,” Treavor forced the words out.

Corvo noticed the lapse in comfort. There might have been the tiniest of a smirk on his face, but the beard masked it.

Treavor continued, “We should let you rest before sending you anywhere.”

He added that Corvo should acquaint himself with that odd man Piero before he bowed again and made a hasty exit. He felt sweat dripping down his face. Oh, how dreadfully embarrassing—losing his composure like that, in front of such a disheveled mongrel, a _Serkonan_ no less! Self-control alone kept Treavor from stomping up the stairs to his room. When he reached his door, he slammed it open.

“Wallace!”

His servant looked up warily, scrub brush still in hand.

“Brandy. Vintage. Now,” Treavor said in a clipped tone.

He hardly listened to Wallace’s _of course, sir_ as he plopped onto his bed and buried his face in his hands. He resisted the urge to scream into his pillow. His servant was prompt in returning, however, and he soon had a glass of his favorite brandy in his hands. At last, something to drink. Wallace resumed his scrubbing without comment. He sat there, sullen, drinking one glass after another. When one of the other servants passed his room, he remembered the open door and rose to close it, desiring privacy to wallow in his discomfort.  
But at the door, he caught a glimpse of that dark coat and shapely legs passing the hallway opening and heading up the stairs. This time, Treavor allowed himself to stare.

“Wallace,” he said, the alcohol having mellowed him. “Two more bottles.”

Treavor was going to get _smashed_.

The end


End file.
